


Level Seven

by GalaxyThreads, Iaiunitas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Phil Coulson, Blood, Brothers, Case Fic, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Crossover, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Mystery, No Laura Barton, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Protective Phil Coulson, Protective Sam Winchester, Protectiveness, Season/Series 02, The Colt (Supernatural), outsider POV for the Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26438377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iaiunitas/pseuds/Iaiunitas
Summary: Phil is working a case with newly turned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Clint Barton when they first run into the Winchesters, then across something strange. (One-shot) (No slash, no smut)
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	Level Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: None.
> 
> Summary: Phil is working a case with newly turned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Clint Barton when they first run into the Winchesters, then across something strange.
> 
> Set: Late S2 of SPN, a few months after Clint leaves the Circus of Crime. April 2007.
> 
> Warnings: Some hunting violence, injury.
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on A03 under the penname of "GalaxyThreads."
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

* * *

"And you lost them... _again_?" Barton asks, not even making an effort to hide the skepticism from his voice. He leans back in his chair slightly, obviously unimpressed, blowing out a sarcastic "wow" between his teeth.

Phil sends him a pointed look of _silence_ , tightening his clasped hands for the briefest moment and does his best to refrain from kicking the younger man beside him under the tabletop.

The thirty-something man on the other side of the table looks flustered for a moment, clearly embarrassed, but to his credit doesn't miss a beat. "Yes. But they're a high flight risk, and they're intelligent. I'll admit that I wasn't...as prepared as I had been hoping for."

The words come out like they're at gunpoint. Strained.

Barton opens his mouth, likely to make another nasty, but pointed comment, and this time Phil does stomp on his foot down onto Barton's toes. Barton makes a slight noise in the back of his throat with pain, hands flexing out, but Phil speaks over it smoothly, "They broke out of a guarded, locked prison. That's not exactly a flight risk anymore, is it?"

Flight risk isn't for post arrest.

Agent Henriksen pauses for the briefest moment again, the hesitation of a man who knows he's been caught. His hands fidget across the tabletop, clearly uncomfortable. Unable to come up with anything to say, the man shoots a glance towards his partner, obviously asking for silent help.

Barton scoffs under his breath, leaning back further into his chair. He looks sixteen in that position, with all the air of a malapert teenager.

Phil kicks him under the table again, forcing him to jerk upright again and send an advert scowl towards him. Phil maintains his comfortable facade without breaking eye contact, focusing his gaze forward and tries not to let the rush of irritation show on his features.

He's working with a _child._

Agent Reidy, who's spent a majority of this conversation behind folded arms in a quiet, obvious disapproval releases as sigh. "Their defense attorney admitted to giving them information about a deceased nurse."

"Oh," Barton tilts forward, one hand flat on the tabletop, sarcasm laced in his voice as he asks, "alright, that clears it up. Makes perfect sense, too. A _deceased_ nurse helped them escape?"

"Agent Barry." Phil grits out sharply.

Barton seems unfazed, if a little smug. Phil wonders where the hunted, frightened, wild thing that he caught several months ago went.

Henriksen visibly bristles, mouth tightening like he's preparing for a fight, but Reidy lifts up a hand to silence him and continues in a rush, "The prison ward, Deacon—he said that he turned their back and then they were on him. We looked for them in the graveyard afterwards, but there wasn't anything. Later, we cross referenced everything. Their DA got her information off. Wrong cemetery."

Something about the way he says that makes Phil doubt he believes it.

"So you still don't know how they left the building?" Phil asks.

"No." Henriksen confirms. "We haven't seen them since. That was two weeks ago. We've pooled our resources, but there's nothing. We have two extremely dangerous, intelligent serial killers out there who have now successfully escaped custody several times."

Phil presses his lips together. Knowing what he does about the background of the two men, most of the killing attached to their cases are circumstantial evidence. But that's not the point. They aren't here to trade awe at the slippery slope that is these brothers. "Dean Winchester isn't even thirty. His brother is what? Twenty-two?"

"Three." Henriksen corrects.

"Alright, twenty-three. Are you seriously telling me that you've been evaded by _college_ students?" Phil asks. It's an unfair question, he knows. The young man next to him is proof enough of that. But S.H.I.E.L.D. would've had this case wrapped up _months_ ago.

Henriksen and Reidy share a long, tired look.

Their compliance is slipping, which means Phil needs to move this along before they lose it all together. Barton is the one who insisted that getting background on the case would help them. Clearly, it's only making Henriksen and Reidy consider assault.

Phil lifts up a hand, shaking his head somewhat. _Focus on the task, not judgement,_ he reprimands himself sharply. "Nevermind that. My main concern isn't them. It's her," he slides a photo across the table, letting the two FBI agents take a long, hard look. It's blurry, caught only by CCTV footage on chance. But it gives enough of the profile to bring up hazy identification. Underneath a blue baseball cap with "NEW YORK" written across the front, long hair pokes out. The red is the one continuous trait that sticks across the stories.

Henriksen squints at the photo, mouth pressed into a thin line. He gives a slight shake of his head as he looks at it, obviously unable to think of anyone. Phil bites back a sigh.

"Yeah...maybe," Reidy says, and Barton visibly perks beside him. "I mean, I think just in passing. Wasn't…" he nudges his partner on the shoulder. "She was that nurse. In the prison. The short one."

Henriksen's eyes cloud with thought, then his lips part, "Oh yeah. That's right, hair wasn't curly, but that's her."

Phil shares a look with Barton, relief biting at the edges of his stoic mask. Chasing dead ends and leads for weeks has bitten slowly at the patience of both of them. Having a confirmed sighting is _something,_ even if the trail is two weeks cold. It means that his theory was right.

And after picking up the cold case more than four years in the making, having _something_ is better than another miss-sighting.

If Phil had been wrong, it would have been a return to the drawing board. Again.

"Oh, thank God," Barton mutters.

Henriksen's gaze flicks between the two of them, curious, "Who is she? You said you needed to know about the Winchester case for the sake of your own. Is she someone that I need to be aware of? A partner?"

Phil's fingers flex.

Henriksen and Reidy are quiet, waiting for more information. Phil doesn't feel inclined to _give_ them any, but Barton opens his mouth, lips twitching into a smirk. "Partner is a definite no. We're pretty sure she's trying to kill them."

The FBI agents exchange a surprised look.

Phil kicks Barton under the table. Barton's lip visibly twists with a grimace, but he keeps the rest of his face devoid of the pain. Phil gives a cool smile and rises to his feet, reaching out to slide the picture back, and then tucks it inside the folder he brought in. Barton, thankfully, receives the hint and gets to his feet as well, re-buttoning his suit coat. "Thank you gentlemen for your time. You've been very helpful." Phil says, keeping his tone bland.

"Hang on," Reidy demands, at last unfolding his arms, "who is that woman?"

_Wouldn't they all like to know that?_

Barton opens his mouth, but he's said too much already today.

"We're not at liberty to discuss that with you," Phil says. The two agents stare at him, jaws set stubbornly and Phil closes his eyes, relenting after a moment. _Feds._ There's something about working with them that makes him want to strangle something. Just because they can call on the all mighty power of DC doesn't make them all knowing, or even impressive. Honestly, for the most part, it just makes them a little pompous. "You know the Winchester's suspected body count?" Both give receiving nods. Phil lifts up the folder, "Triple it for her, at a minimum."

Henriksen makes a choked noise. "And you don't even have a _name?"_

"Just an alias." Phil gives a tight smile, "But that's not your concern. Agent Barry," Phil tips his head in an indication for Barton to follow, and after evading the handshakes and questions both FBI agents try to give them, they exit the room.

Amazingly, Barton manages to keep his mouth shut until they've left the building and have clambered back into the car. Phil's no sooner started the engine than Barton is tugging off his tie and giving him a scowl. "I think you dislocated my shin."

Phil represses a roll of his eyes, glancing behind before pulling out of the parking spot. "You needed to keep quiet. The less information they know, the better. You keep talking and I'll keep kicking."

Barton rubs at his calf for a moment, tossing the discarded tie onto the floor beside his feet, then takes the edge of his pants and rolls it up to his knee. He studies it, but Phil didn't kick him hard enough to bruise, he made certain of that. "Can't you find a nicer way of doing it? Like, I don't know, tapping me on the shoulder?"

Phil lifts an eyebrow.

Tap him on the shoulder? Is he serious?

Barton sighs, dropping the pant leg and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Phil braces himself for more complaining, but Barton's lip twitches up unexpectedly. He clears his throat once, obviously trying not to laugh, "Can you believe them, though? The Winchesters? Did you see their rap sheet? I mean, wow. They really get around."

"Don't get any ideas." Phil warns.

"Right. 'Cause you know how much I love spending my weekends digging up graves. I mean, seriously. Who does that by _choice?"_ Barton asks, shaking his head, "What do you even do once you get down there, anyway? Wait—are they confirmed grave _robbers?_ Ulgh, gross. But my point—they've got the feds going in _circles_."

"They have _us_ going in circles," Phil points out.

Barton sobers a little, then seems to shrug it off. "I'll bet you ten that they escape police custody again before we find them. Seems to be a monthly challenge for them."

Phil closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply to reign in his patience. This is good, he reminds himself. Barton talking to him is good. Two months ago and the car would have been complete silence and an air of agitation and mistrust that you could choke on. This is better. The fact that Barton has calmed around him at all.

But all that is good above. One more word...

This was his choice, he reminds himself. He picked the kid up, Barton is his responsibility until he's more adjusted, and they can find him another partner or a detail that will better match his skill set. He knew that when he brought him back to Fury's office after the Circus had been cleaned up. Still. Sometimes he thinks he's going to simply boot the kid out of the car and leave him to fend for himself, no matter how much Barton has impressed him.

Phil blows out a breath between his teeth. "Alright. Enough. Focus—we need to find the Winchesters. We find them, we find the gun, and then we find Widow. You got an ID on the weapon yet?"

Barton's smirk falls slightly, but he nods, reaching behind them to the backseat to grab a notebook. He flips it open to a page with scribbled notes all over it. The handwriting is almost painfully neat, though, just small and slanted to the left. "Yeah. First known appearance is 1836, owned by a guy named Samuel Colt. Everyone I've talked to just kinda calls it 'the Colt', more a bedtime story than anything else. It's said to be able to and I quote 'kill everyone in existence except five things', which I mean, seems kinda specific. How do you even know—"

"Barton."

"Right. Sorry. Okay. That's about all I managed to get. And that was after getting my informant very drunk," Barton makes a slight noise in the back of his throat, like the memory isn't a pleasant one. Phil grunts in inquiry, but Barton jumps topics, "You got any idea why Widow is after this thing? Or how the Winchesters got in possession of it in the first place?"

Phil shrugs. "If the legend is true, and this gun can kill anything...who wouldn't find that useful?" S.H.I.E.L.D. would. Fury told him to bring it back, but Phil has yet to explain that to Barton, "My best bet is her employer found himself an enhanced. As for the Winchesters, who knows? Maybe they just got lucky. I don't think they know what they have."

How could they? They're just civilians. Not exactly the most morally upright he knows of, but civilians all the same.

"Yeah, serial killers don't really strike me as the collect-rare-artifacts type. But I mean, everyone needs a side hobby." Barton shrugs, then releases a long sigh, stretching his arms up and over his head as best he can in the small space of the car. "Alright, so we track down the Winchesters, and just sit on them until Widow makes her appearance? Coulson, _she's_ having trouble keeping track of these guys. What makes you think that we're going to be any different? Honestly, I think we should just go back to tracking her directly."

"Inadvertently is the only way we'll get the drop on her, past experience has proven that," Phil says, pulling the car into a sharp left turn as the light turns yellow. Barton shifts somewhat, eyes narrowing. He keeps insisting that Phil is a reckless driver, which he doesn't agree with. He's just assertive. "And besides that, we get that gun, we'll have something to negotiate with her."

"That doesn't mean we'll be able to find the Winchesters." Barton points out.

"Yeah, well, she, nor the FBI, is S.H.I.E.L.D."

000o000

After about a week and a half, and more coffee running through his veins than blood, they do manage to track them down. At a bar. It's more by chance than actual detective work, but Phil's not exactly complaining. They'd narrowed the town down, and then Barton spotted the '67 Impala while making a food run, and it didn't take a lot of thought to connect the two dots.

Phil takes a moment to study them in passing. The two appear to be discussing something, but what is unclear. The younger of the two, Sam, if he's remembering right, is sporting a nasty cut from the edge of his left eye down to nearly his chin, held together by butterfly bandages and tape. It looks fresh, maybe a day or so old. He looks a little haggard, like he hasn't slept or eaten for a few days. Hair rustled, eyes shadows, posture stiff.

For all that, Dean looks worse. His short dirty blonde hair is matted with what looks like dirt and possibly dried, stubborn blood, but does little to hide the shadows. He's clearly favoring his left side, and when his sleeves move, Phil spots gauze wrapped around his wrists.

The two of them look like they just walked away from a fight.

Or, Phil realizes with slight disgust, a kill.

He draws in a tight breath. Serial killers, right. Just because the evidence of the body drops is circumstantial doesn't mean that it isn't true. Honestly, he'd been hoping for it to _just_ be a coincidence, because even though S.H.I.E.L.D. is good at turning a blind eye when they need to, working with people that murder for fun isn't something he _wants_ to do. A necessity, but if he didn't have to, he wouldn't.

 _Bigger fish,_ he reminds himself.

Phil exhales through his teeth before making sure his gun is within reach and then catches Barton's eye for half a second. The younger man is perched next to the bar's back door, keeping an eye on the scene from a distance. Phil has no doubts that if worst comes to worst, even from that vantage point, Barton can get a hit. Without damaging any of the bystanders.

(Sometimes he wonders about him. How he seems to defy physics with his aim.)

A part of him wants to approach, just to see what the Winchesters would do. If they'd recognize him as a government official, or just think he was another man attempting to drown his sorrows into a bottle. Logically, he doesn't have to have any interaction with them period if everything goes according to plan, and Phil would very much prefer that to attempting to make a deal with the brothers.

No. All they need to do now is not _lose_ them.

Which is a harder task than he thinks it should be.

Phil sees then that maybe-Dean has noticed him staring and is returning the gesture. Phil bites on the inside of his lip for a moment, sighing inwardly. But he hasn't lasted an agent this long by being unable to clean up a mess.

Phil catches maybe-Dean's eye and then approaches the table, purposefully throwing in a stumble to make his gait seem off. He stretches up a lazy smile and slaps a hand on the table, pretending to nearly topple on top of it. "Hey, man," Phil says, slipping into a Texan drawl. They're in the middle of North Dakota, but he remembered that a second too late. "Do I know you? I swear I know you. You've got this…" he waves a hand towards Dean's face, "familiar look. College? Was it college?"

Dean's eyes narrow for a moment, one hand tucked into his jacket, and he swears he hears a stifled snort from Sam on the other side of the table. "Ah, no," Dean doesn't even bother to smile politely, looking irritated and a little stab-happy. "Never seen you before."

Phil tilts his head in feigned confusion, noting silently that up close Dean looks much worse. His skin is almost chalk white, and there's a bruise spreading up the left side of his face, like he was hit by something heavy.

It confuses him, honestly, but no one said that serial killing was exactly a _safe_ job.

"Huh," Phil says to cover up his quiet lapse. "My bad, sorry man." He gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder to sell it, and Dean stiffens under the contact like Phil just bladed him. Phil then narrows his eyes and tips his head a little, "Dude! _That's_ a bruise."

Dean's hands tighten around the glass. Yeah, Phil is getting on his nerves. Time to bail, the goal is to become unmemorable.

"Got on the wrong end of a bookshelf." Dean says, and Phil doesn't believe that for a second. That's not the type of bruise you get from lightly ramming your head accidentally.

"Whoa," Phil forces, then smiles with half his face and laughs a little, turning away without another word. Turning into another drunk in a bar where it's late enough that everyone still here should be wiped. Phil stumbles towards the back exit, where Barton is perched and narrows his eyes as he sees what's in his charge's hand.

He forces himself not to look back, trusting Barton to handle that job for him should the Winchesters decide to make a break for it. Judging on how Barton's posture remains lax, they don't. And if they haven't already, they'll still be there for a few more minutes. They didn't look in any hurry to leave.

Phil pushes Barton outside, and tears the bottle from his hands once the door has lapped shut. Barton makes a noise of protest. "Hey!"

"Come back to me in four months, when you're legal." Phil says, pulling the bottle away when Barton tries to grab it from him.

"Oh, c'mon, my brother let me—"

"Your brother is a diagnosed psychopath. I don't think he's exactly in the position to be making those calls," Phil says smoothly, and winces inwardly at the gutted look that passes over Barton's face. It's fleeting, but there. "Besides, we're working. You don't drink when you work. S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations."

Barton's lips twist into something dangerously close to a pout. "Yeah, well, hate to break it to ya', but S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations kinda suck."

Sometimes. Most of the time they keep you alive, and Phil has long since learned not to argue with them. He gives Barton a tight smile, then takes a swig from the bottle. It tingles as it passes down his throat, and Phil grimaces a little at the taste.

Barton stares at him incredulously. "You are the biggest hypocrite on the planet," he declares, folding his arms across his chest.

Phil lightly smacks the side of the archer's head. "You should get used to that. I hope that you got some coffee, because we're on watching detail until Widow makes an appearance."

It's more of a lighthearted jab than anything else. Barton seems to live off of coffee, bagels, and peanut butter. Phil would bet his unborn child that Barton has had above the recommended amount of caffeine today.

Barton's shoulders slump. "Great."

Phil silently echoes the sentiment.

000o000

They trail the Impala back to a motel six. The outside looks a little rough, and one of the neon lights balanced on the roof has tipped over. It looks cheap, and probably feels that way, too. But the Winchesters hobble out of the car and approach their room—five—without even a despairing look passed between them. They, Phil assumes, are used to shoddy places of residence.

The light flicks on, and Phil braces himself for a long night.

Barton slinks down in the passenger seat, but only folds his arms across his chest to get more comfortable. It's not a shift of boredom, and Phil feels a little surprised by that—the kid lacks a reasonable attention span—until he remembers that Barton is a trained sniper. One of the greatest traits for a sniper to _have_ is patience.

And Phil knows the lengths of Barton's patience. Honestly, he can't think of another agent off the top of his head who'd be better for watch duty than Barton.

Barton glances once at him, "You're wiped. I'll take first watch."

"No thanks. Sleeping in a car isn't exactly comfortable." Phil remarks, keeping his gaze on the silhouettes in the window. "I'd like to feel my spine tomorrow."

Barton scoffs. "You're like, what? Ten years older than me? You're spine will be fine." He shrugs a little. "But your loss. But I mean, if Widow does show, we should probably try to have more than seven hours between us."

Phil sags a little. "Fine. Wake me up in two hours."

000o000

Beyond the aches and stiffness from being seated in a car for so long growing, the night passes uneventfully.

When the sun starts to peak over the horizon, Sam exits the room in a hurry and slips into the Impala. Phil sends a glance towards Barton, who's already clambering out of the car with a tert, "on it," and vanishes into the early morning light. The town they're in is thankfully small, so Barton shouldn't have a problem trailing the Impala as long as he's smart about it.

Phil would have offered to let him take the car, but Barton doesn't know how to drive. He'd looked offended when Phil offered to teach him a few months back. So Barton does a lot of tracking by foot, if the situation permits it.

Phil waits, curious. It was hard to see Sam's face from this distance and the poor lighting, but his movements looked rushed. Maybe something happened. Dean wasn't looking so hot, and being wanted in several states would make popping by an ER a difficulty. Even with their flight risk rap sheet.

A general rumor pops up of their presence here, and Henriksen and Reidy will try and lock down the entire state.

It's about twenty minutes before Barton clambers into the car again, slightly out of breath and only points when Phil raises an eyebrow in question. The Impala pulls into the parking lot, and Sam exits the car and slips back into the motel room, a plastic bag from a nearby drugstore in hand.

"You see what he got?" Phil asks, more out of curiosity than anything else. They don't need to learn a thing about the brothers, they're just a means to an end. Bigger fish and all.

Barton shrugs a little, "Uh, drugs?"

Phil sighs.

000o000

Neither Winchester makes a move to leave the motel room, so Phil makes a food run around ten AM that morning and when he returns, Barton has somehow acquired a newspaper. Phil doesn't want to know, so he doesn't ask and only hands Barton a cinnamon roll.

Barton takes a bite of it absentmindedly, like he always does when Phil puts food in his general proximity. When the kid actually sits down and focuses on food, he can consume an impressive plate. But otherwise, Phil swears he only eats if reminded he needs to.

"Dude," Barton says around chews. He lifts up the paper and points at something, "you see this? There's been, like, five deaths in the last week."

 _Five?_ In a town this size? Phil's eyebrows raise a little, "Chew first, then speak to me."

Barton sneers a little, but obediently swallows. "They're chalking it up to some sort of animal attack. Apparently one of the witnesses says that the cuts were so deep that they could 'see the spleen from inside the torso.'" Barton grimaces a little at the description.

Appetite lost, Phil feels his face twitch. "Vics in the woods?" His mother had been killed by something in the woods when he was ten. He's avoided them like the plague ever since, something Fury has thankfully not pushed him on.

Barton's face does that tipping thing when he's thinking, "Yes and no. Two of 'em, another two found dead on a nearby hiking path, and one made it to the ER before giving up the ghost." Barton scans the paper and snorts a little, "Warned the staff to 'watch out for the kid'."

"A kid?" Phil repeats doubtfully. "A kid cut someone open enough that their insides fell out?"

Vague amusement washes over Barton's expression, "Hey, maybe he meant like a kid baby bear or something. They just came out of hibernation, right? It's early April."

That's true, but something just seems a little off about that. Bears maul their victims, they don't cut them open like a surgeon. Honestly, the killings seem more human than anything...Phil closes his eyes, remembering the bruise on Dean's face. "When they'd say the killings started?"

 _Circumstantial bodies,_ he remembers thinking when he read the report on the siblings.

"Uh, first one was last month, other four have been almost exactly a week after...bears don't hunt like that." Barton looks up at him, face suddenly grim. "Winchesters?"

One of the only eye-witnessed murders pinned on Dean was in St. Lewis, Missouri, and all those were done with a blade. Cutting open someone that deeply doesn't seem completely outside his M.O. Phil doesn't know enough about Sam's. No one does. As far as can be told, he just got dragged along into the mess after his girlfriend died in Stanford.

"Maybe," Phil submits.

Barton's face scrunches, and he swears under his breath. "Man, I am so calling the feds when we're done here."

"I've still got Henriksen's card," Phil offers, and realizes that he's serious.

000o000

Dean doesn't exit the room the rest of the day, but Sam does to grab something from the back seat of the Impala then return. They don't leave to go kidnap an innocent, there's no sounds of faint screaming, no blood covered mess. They look, for all intents and purposes, absolutely unremarkable. That, Phil privately thinks, is why they are so good at vanishing.

Widow doesn't make an appearance.

Phil's beginning to think that they're going to have to trail the Winchesters to another state, and the thought doesn't feel him with enthusiasm.

000o000

The town they're in is mostly surrounded by forest, hence the bear theory. It seems to be a battle of push/shove between the forest eating through the town and the buildings and roads resisting the assault. It's not Phil's comfort zone, and the place they've parked the car across the street from the Winchester's motel six is touching the edge of the woods.

As they've played guard duty for the last thirty-seven hours, they've heard some weird noises, most of which Phil has chalked up to "woods" and started to tune out. He assumed Barton did the same. So it's a bit of a surprise when a little past eight PM on the second day, Barton's head suddenly shoots up from where he was dozing and he asks, "Did you hear that?"

Phil looks up from the paper he's read three times now. "What?"

Barton's head tips, sleep completely washed from his face. His eyes narrow a little, then widen, " _That."_

Phil still can't hear anything. He glances towards the archer, trying to decide if he's just tiredly hearing things. Even if he's not, Barton's hearing isn't a hundred percent on it's best days, even with the hearing aids. If there was something _to_ hear, Phil would've picked up on it.

"Barton, there's nothing—"

"It's a kid, Coulson, there's a kid out there," Barton's wild eyes swing up to meet him for a second, then he's scrambling out of the car and yanking out the .45 in his boot. He rushes towards the woods, exactly where Phil was silently praying he wouldn't go. Phil releases a heavy curse, tossing the paper down and pushing the door open to follow.

"Barton!" he calls out sharply, pounding after the archer's rapidly disappearing form.

Phil staggers a step when he realizes he _can_ hear it. Soft cries, like a child weeping in despair. They're loud, but off putting, and Phil can't place why until he realizes that the forest is complete and utterly dead silent.

Just like the night his mother was mutilated. _When the woods go quiet, you run from 'em, you hear me boy?_ He remembers his grandfather explaining to him with a serious expression in his eyes. Phil had nodded, wide eyed.

_Curses!_

"Barton!" Phil calls louder, pulling his own S.H.I.E.L.D. issued .45 out and picking up the pace. He can barely make out Barton's dark jacket through the woodland. " _BARTON!"_

The child is getting more frantic, and Phil can hear it calling for help. It doesn't seem to be getting any closer, but that doesn't deter Barton. They need to find this kid, then get out of here. You don't mess with a silent forest unless you want to end up dead or missing.

He can hear his heart and breath screaming through the air, making it heart to hear anything. His feet landing on the foliage feels like gunshots going off.

Phil picks up the pace when the child's cries start to quiet, and then comes to a stop when he spots Barton kneeling in front of a little girl, breathing hard. The gun is out of sight, likely tucked back into his boot. Phil keeps his out, uncaring if it scares the child.

The girl can't be older than four or five. Blonde hair is falling out of two pigtails, and she's dressed in a ratty dress with a dirty sunflower pattern. She's without shoes, and her face is tear streaked. Glancing at her gray eyes causes a shiver to run down his spine.

 _She looks like my mom,_ Phil thinks, startled. The pictures he's seen of her as a child, at least. Almost identical, actually, and that unsettles him more than the silence.

Barton is talking to her in soft tones, one hand on her shoulder. It seems to be quieting her tears, but not doing much else. The forest is utterly devoid of sound, sucking it in like a vacuum. The night his mother was killed, it seemed like they had all the time in the world. He can still smell the campfire, hear the crackling of it, so loud in the quiet.

There wasn't even a breeze. There isn't now.

"Barton, we need to go," Phil says, feeling slightly frustrated by the urgency that slips into his tone, " _now."_

"Hang on a sec," Barton intones tightly, then turns his attention back to the girl that's not his mother.

Phil moves forward and grabs his shoulder. Barton's jacket is cold beneath his touch. When Phil breathes out, his breath mists. "No. Grab her and let's go."

"I—"

"That's an order, Clint. This isn't up for debate."

Barton makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, and then offers a hand out to the blonde child. She smiles shyly for a second, tears suddenly dry. Then she reaches out a hand to grasp Barton's and her eyes flash an unnatural white. Long, thick claws replace fingers and the innocent face stretches into something awful as long fangs sprout from her mouth.

Phil's mouth runs dry. He blinks once, twice, frozen.

Barton flinches back, but the child—thing—is faster. She wraps the claws around Barton's forearm, digging in. Barton makes a gasping noise of pain, staggering as the girl yanks him forward. Her claws rake down his arm as she does so, and Phil sees blood immediately start to pool from the gashes.

And suddenly Phil remembers the fifth victim's warning about the kid. _This isn't my mother,_ he thinks widely. Something like this killed her.

Trance broken, Phil lifts up his gun and doesn't even hesitate. He fires at her forehead. The bullet impacts, and the creature screeches, but doesn't seem affected by anything other than the noise. A bloody, gaping hole lingers in her forehead, but starts to close as if simply drawing two curtains together to cover a window.

Phil has seen enhanced since he joined S.H.I.E.L.D.

Just not anything like this.

The girl starts to morph, stretching up and out, filing into a figure that's older and taller. Easily topping six feet, an old man in an old, ratty suit stares back at him. The eyes aren't white anymore, but they aren't normal either. The man grabs something from it's pocket and stuffs them inside its ears, then

the enhanced snarls at him, and Barton makes a noise that sounds a little like a gag, scrambling back.

Phil fires three more rounds into the enhanced's chest as it advances, but the bullets don't affect it. Phil can _see_ blood pooling, but the wounds just seem like superficial papercuts.

Phil tosses the gun, grabbing the knife he keeps on the inside of his suit coat.

The enhanced seems to blur a little when it moves, and Phil can't track the movement with his eyes until it's knocked the weapon from his grip and slammed it's fist into his head. The pain blinds him, and he topples, gasping sharply. The entire world goes out of focus. Knuckles shouldn't be that powerful. Human fists aren't.

Vaguely, he thinks he hears another gunshot.

Something wet and sticky starts to pour down the side of his head. Blood.

The sensation snaps a little life into him, and Phil jerks, fumbling for control. He blinks his eyes open. The world blurs. Someone screams, the kind of noise you make when skin is being flayed. It's pain and panic, and a name. His name. It cuts off.

_Clint._

Phil scrambles for the dropped dagger, but can't do much more than twist a little before his equilibrium is lost. He falls on his hands and knees, but looks up, desperate to see the kid. There's nothing. No sounds of movement, no body, no figure vanishing into the night with the archer slung over his shoulder.

_God, please don't let him—_

"Clint!" he shouts, grimacing at the noise. There's no returned call. " _CLINT!"_

Nothing.

Phil swears heavily. The forest around him is empty and quiet.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to gather himself together before he panics. It's fine, he's fine. It will be fine. He'll make it fine. He's tracked enhanced before. He can do this. It's not a problem. Clint will be fine. He'll make sure of it. He won't let anything happen.

Phil pants for a moment, allows himself a few seconds to engage fully in the panic, then stuffs it back where it won't be a distraction. He reaches for the dagger, and it takes a second before he actually gets his fingers to brush the handle. The world is dizzying, like he's viewing it from murky glasses.

There's pounding footsteps behind him, and Phil whirls, off-balance, knife raised even as he half hopes, half prays that it will be Barton.

It isn't.

Sam Winchester is moving towards him, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand. The young man doesn't even pause at seeing him, weapon raised and looking for a threat that isn't there. It isn't there because _it has Clint._

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, approaching more carefully now. _Why do you want to know?_ Lingers on his tongue. _You kill people. You don't care._

He's tall, Phil realizes. Really tall. _Six-foot-four,_ Phil remembers seeing on his profile.

"My mom took him," is all Phil can think to say. He feels like an idiot. He's faced situations worse than this before and kept a clear head. But at the time, it didn't feel like his skull was cracking open. The blood is starting to roll down his neck. It's unsettling. He probably has a concussion. He shakes his head, and has to readjust his feet to stop from toppling. "Not my mom. A thing. I don't…"

Sam curses, not even sparing him a glance. "Who? Who did it take?"

"Clint." Phil says. "I was supposed to look out for him."

The world is starting to tip, like he's water being spilled from a tipped water bottle. Sam's hand grabs his shoulder, keeping him upright. Phil has to fight the knee-jerk reaction to plunge the blade into the young man's chest.

Sam stares at his face, then the blood, and swears again. A hand reaches out to prod the wound, and Phil feels himself blanch. The enhanced used claws, his hair is going to be matted with blood. _Because that's the most concerning thing at the moment._

"C'mon, we need to get you to a hospital."

"You aren't just going to kill me?" His verbal filter has been stripped from him.

Sam sputters, "What? Why would I—?"

The world stutters again, fumbling, and Phil starts to list. He thinks he's going to be sick.

"Sam Winchester," Phil says, nodding and regretting that decision, "Saaam, you and your brother kill people. Lots of people. This one was supposed to be you, but now it's Clint." He releases a sharp, panicked breath. " _It's got Clint."_

Sam's white face looks back at him. Phil smiles in encouragement, then topples as the world goes black.

000o000

When Phil wakes up, he has about half a second before his stomach lurches. There's movement as he jerks, then his face is shoved towards a trash can and he promptly empties his stomach into it. He doesn't stop until he's dry heaving, and only feels marginally better for it.

There's something on his head, and Phil reaches up for it, fingering the edge of what he recognizes to be a bandage.

"Don't touch that," a voice instructs, slapping his hand back.

Phil startles. Memory provides an answer a second later, giving the voice a name: Sam. He blinks several times to try and bring the world into one distinct image instead of four, then sits up very slowly. He's on a lumpy mattress with a blue, flower-patterned blanket beneath him. The room isn't a hospital, or a S.H.I.E.L.D. medical barracks. It's a motel room. And Phil has a sinking suspicion that he knows whose _._

He turns his head slowly and, as he expected, sees Sam moving the waste basket into the bathroom. Dean is seated at the small table next to the window, staring at him. He looks a little better than he did the night of the bar, but not by much. Still worn, tired, and favoring his left side. He's wrapped in a red throw blanket that looks about double his age. There's a gun resting near his hand, on top of a small stack of papers. It's a pointed threat.

A laptop is open on the other side of the table, light glowing softly.

Phil looks at the window, and realizes that daylight is spilling into the room. Clint went missing before the sun had even gone down. That would have been hours ago, if not a day. _Shoot._ For a brief moment, Phil feels himself teetering on the edge of panic. Then he forces himself to let it go. His panic isn't going to help Clint.

He needs to find the young adult's kidnapper, then stuff it full of bullets.

That will help.

Not worrying over nothing.

Sam exits the bathroom, and sets the garbage can down next to a bedside table with a lamp perched on top that looks close to simply giving up the ghost. Then the younger Winchester takes the seat on the other side of the table, and they continue the unfriendly staring game.

As discreetly as he can, Phil tries to reach into his jacket for the .45. It's gone. A quick glance towards his boots reveals that the second gun is gone as well. And, he suspects with growing dread, so are the rest of his weapons. They may have taken care of the damage to his head—for whatever purpose—but aren't stupid enough to leave him armed. Pity.

Phil releases a breath, tries to get the world to stop blurring at the edges through sheer willpower alone, then stares the two brothers in the eye. Everything he knows about them screams that this is out of character. They kill people, not save them.

Steady.

In, out.

Clint needs him focused. And he needs to get out of this room. The sooner the better, because then he'll be able to start the hunt for the archer. Every minute Phil spends in here decreases Clint's chances of walking away from this.

"Hi," Phil says at last, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and forcing himself to project a calm, at ease presence. He feels anything but. He has to grip the edges of the blankets to keep himself from tipping forward face-first.

Dean shifts forward a little, eyes squinting at the edges with creased pain. "Yeah, that's cute. We're really gonna play this game when there isn't a point, Agent Coulson?"

Phil barely represses a wince. Keeping his ID on has become a habit. It's easier to carry it with him than have to go back and forth between a car or motel room when he needs to use the badge to get him places. He would have carried fakes, but he didn't factor in a head wound into the equation for tracking down Black Widow.

Honestly, he hadn't expected any action _period_ until she made an appearance.

A mistake, and one that may cost Barton his life.

"No, I suppose we don't need to," Phil surmises. He squeezes his eyes shut when the world sways a little, then opens them again, breathing as steady as he can make it. He staggers up to his feet, feeling his face bleed of color as his head protests the action. Clint, he reminds himself sharply, then demands through gritted teeth, "Where's my gun?"

Sam's expression flickers, going from hard to concerned, then blank. "You should sit down, Agent."

"No," Phil protests, "where's my gun? What'd you do with my…" he grabs at the wall, palm flat and braced, when toppling threatens to become a real possibility. "The thing took him, and I have to get Clint back. _Where is my gun?"_

"Not here," Dean says flatly. Then, in a tone that's barely softer, "Sit down before you fall over."

"Clint needs me—"

"Clint will be fine," Sam interrupts. He sounds certain of himself, and it doesn't reassure Phil in the slightest. He doesn't know what that means. What their definition of fine _is_.

Sam is suddenly next to him, and pushing him back to the mattress. Phil all but collapses, unable to fight back no matter how much he wants to. His head is pulsing. Swimming through a lake of fire and brimstone.

"I have to…"

"Just sit still for a second," Sam commands. He's so _gentle._ It aggravates him.

Phil grits his teeth, shoving the hands away. "Don't pretend like you care."

"Oh, a real sweet talker, aren't you?" Dean mutters in the background. In a voice that's a little louder, he calls, "Sammy, next pet you bring home, try and make sure they aren't vicious first, okay?"

" _Dean."_ Sam sounds exasperated. Dean quiets.

Phil squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to gain a steady rhythm because he has to start somewhere. In an effort to be discreet, which fails, Phil lifts a hand up to rub at the gash beneath the bandages. It's itching. Normal, but no less annoying.

"Look," Sam is clearly addressing him in that same comforting tone, but Phil isn't ready to give him any attention, "Agent Coulson, I know that this must be hard, but we do need to ask some questions. Your...buddy—"

"Partner," Phil corrects between his teeth.

"Partner," Sam corrects himself smoothly, "did he hear something in the forest?"

Phil bites on the inside of his cheek. Every instinct within him protests at the thought of giving them information, even if it is completely useless. What are they going to do with Phil's account anyway? Create a murder scene that was similar? Without an enhanced to do the dirty work for them, it's not likely they'll be able to achieve much.

"You said you saw your mom," Sam tries again. Prompting. Waiting.

Phil closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the distinct thought of _s_ _he looks like my mom._ "It wasn't." Phil says. It wouldn't make sense, even if she was some sort of ghost. She died in her thirties, not when she was five. "Not when I knew her. She couldn't have been older than six. Just a kid."

Some random child that Clint was willing to run off into the woods for. That he might have died trying to save, when all it wanted to do was kill him.

He opens his eyes again, and catches the brothers exchanging a single glance. It seems to speak thousands of words in a second.

Sam slowly sits down on the other bed in front of him. For his lanky, tall frame should put him in the position to intimidate, Sam's posture is far from it. He seems...inviting. This isn't normal, Phil thinks. He's met serial killers before.

"Okay," Sam encourages, and Phil feels all of five with that tone, "so the kid looked like your mom? But when she was young?"

"Yeah." Phil says. He pulls himself together a little tighter, wounds the scattered, fragmented pieces inside. He feels cold. "Why do you _care?_ You kill people, I've seen your report. You have no reason to give a crap about Clint."

Dean makes a noise, like Phil has personally offended him. "Listen dude," Dean says, and leans forward, eyes squinting, expression twisted. _Pain,_ Phil guesses. "Alright, because we don't have time to pity you, and you're going to have to swallow this truth quickly. We aren't serial killers or whatever the FBI is writing us up to be."

"That so?" Phil asks, doubtful.

Sam's expression, what little of it was open, closes off.

"No, we're not." Dean's voice is hard. He speaks like he's said this dozens of times before. So much that the words have lost all meaning, and are simply a script for him to follow. "We hunt ghosts, and demons, and whatever other supernatural crap goes bump in the night. And we kill it. Monsters—vampires, ghouls, werewolves, they're all real, alright?"

Phil stares. He lets the words sink in and linger, slowly churning inside his head and stomach. His first, base instinct is to reject and _laugh,_ because the idea is utterly ludicrous. Vampires wear shiny things and count salt, werewolves are hairy men with claws and fangs. There's no way that myth is fact.

But Phil also isn't stupid. He's seen S.H.I.E.L.D. reports. He's wondered at the gaps there sometimes, the things unspoken or redacted because he's not on the proper Level. He's seen things labeled as "enhanced," and his mom...that night in the woods, when the wild animal got her, but Phil could have sworn stood on two legs and was over seven feet tall.

Phil looks between the two brothers. There is no doubt in their faces at the truth of Dean's words. Whatever took Clint wasn't a enhanced; Phil knows that deep, deep down somewhere, he has since he saw it.

He swallows. His tongue feels swollen and dry. "You kill the supernatural? You're...Ghostbusters?"

Sam's lip quirks up a little, but it's tired. "Yeah. Sure."

Phil feels ridiculous. Like this is all some sort of stimulation he needs to pass. He has to fight not to swallow the word back, "Okay." He says. He says it again, with more conviction. "Okay." The Winchesters exchange another look, as if they expected to have to fight him on it. If Phil didn't have the background he does, the knowledge he does, they would. As it is…

 _Bodies follow them like a shadow,_ Phil thinks, then comes to a realization he thinks should have occurred to him much, much sooner. _No, they don't. They follow_ bodies _._

And he doesn't care what the Winchesters do if it will get him Clint back.

"What took Clint, then? A ghost?" Phil doesn't know how to fight a ghost. To the best of his knowledge, you need a priest, lots of patience, or to leave. "My...my mother's ghost?"

She died in Wisconsin, not North Dakota.

"No, that's unlikely," Dean says, suddenly in possession of a pen and looking down at some papers. "Spirits look the way they did when they died, and I'm going to make a wild guess here and say that your mom didn't die at six." Phil doesn't have an answer for that, and doesn't bother to try and form one.

"Our best guess is that it's a Tiyanak." Sam explains, like that means something.

"A what?"

"Tiyanak." Sam repeats, "It's kind of like a spirit from Philippine mythology. It takes on the form of a child that means something to its victims, and lures them out to kill them. Usually by reverting to its true form and attacking them."

Phil thinks of the skin stretching and growing, and the sick pit in his stomach at the sight. "Yeah, that sounds right."

Sam nods. "Okay."

"Where's Clint, then? If this thing kills, where is he?" Phil demands.

Dean taps his pen twice on the paper. He's slinking down in the seat, like holding himself upright is too much work. "Uh, we don't really know. See, the lore says that Tiyanak's just kill, not drag off prey, but everyone's been missing for days before a body turns up. At best, we got about three days to find your friend before it kills him."

Three days. Phil feels relief and dread at the number. Three days is a long time.

"Where's my phone?" Phil asks.

"You gonna call DC for some help?" Dean asks, not quite sneering. "Sure, bring down the entire FBI on our heads, that will help you find your friend."

"I'm not going to call DC," Phil feels his patience slipping. He realizes then that his FBI badge must be the one they found, and his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID is still stuffed somewhere in his duffle. He feels a little relieved, and frustrated at this. "I have other contacts I can talk to and see if they know anything."

Not that he's actually going to talk. Hacking into the S.H.I.E.L.D. database? Yes. Fury can rail at him later if it means that Clint walks away from this. He dragged the kid into this mess when he pulled him from the Circus. He's not going to let him die.

"We do, too," Sam says, but he's already crossing the room to the ugly TV stand and lifting a phone up. He tosses it to Phil, and Phil catches it without thinking. Access to the internet would be ideal, but he'll work with what he has. He opens up his messages and finds Hill.

_Send me everything you know about Tiyanaks._

"We're going to find your friend," Sam offers. Phil glances up at him and feels like rejecting the platitude. Instead he says nothing.

000o000

Thirty-one hours, and slowly weaning information from Hill and off the internet later, Phil finds himself trudging behind the brothers in the woods with the promise he can help if he "stays out of the way and keeps quiet." Which, _ha,_ but alright.

He keeps his returned .45 in one hand, loaded, and feels like the skin on the back of his neck is stretching and bunching with how uncomfortable he is. The early April air is biting into his lungs, but his breath isn't steaming like it was the night Clint was taken.

Phil zips his jacket up tighter, and is quietly grateful to be out of a suit. He doesn't mind the attire, but there's something relieving about having full range of movement. And no tie.

Phil watches the back of Sam and Dean's heads as they walk. Since waking up in their motel room, Phil hasn't slept. Dean has taken about three hours, but Phil is beginning to suspect that it wasn't by choice and rather his body just giving out on him. Sam must have downed seven cups of coffee. Phil is beginning to feel exhaustion tugging at the tips of his consciousness, like a lover waiting with open arms for him to return.

Sam and Dean are a little different than he was expecting. Sam is quieter, for one. Dean fidgets. His hands always in motion like he doesn't know what to do with them. They're both more serious and less than he thought they would be. Sixty percent of their communication is nonverbal. Both of them seem older than they really are. Scarred. They look like soldiers.

Somewhere into mile two of three to the abandoned cabins they're seeking, Dean staggers and leans heavily against a tree for support. The break of the usual step, step, step that has become his routine for the last seventy minutes makes him pause, and Sam turns sharply.

He rests a hand on his sibling's shoulder. A question.

Dean waves a hand, breathing in sharply between his teeth. "I'm good." He assures, when he really isn't. "Just...just need a second."

Sam grabs the bottom of his brother's shirts and yanks them up. Dean hisses as the cool air makes contact with his pale skin, and Sam swears sharply under his breath. Phil tilts his head to catch a glimpse of what he's looking at. There's a swathe of bandages wrapped up on the left side of Dean's torso. A few wads of gauze are pinned beneath the bandages and Dean's skin. They're also stained a milky pink, with yellow pus.

Phil grimaces. Dean has been moving very carefully since he met him, obviously trying to be conscious of this injury.

Sam swears again, peeling back the bandage slightly to look at the red, swollen skin. He's checked on it twice while Phil was in their motel room, and while unhappy, didn't seem to be this frantic. "Why didn't you say that it was bleeding again?"

Dean's eyes are squeezed shut. He doesn't bother to open them as he answers, "FBI agent in our motel room, Sammy. Seemed more pressing to get rid of him."

"You need a hospital." Phil says.

Both brothers look over at him. Dean's gaze tells him firmly that his opinion wasn't asked for or wanted, but Sam's hold a desperation and fear. "We can't go to a hospital." Sam says, his voice a very low, muted form of hysteria. "We just broke out of prison."

Phil wonders how. He hasn't asked questions since their collaboration began. It hadn't felt appropriate or important. He just wants to find Clint.

"I'm fine, really," Dean tries to push Sam's hand away but instead almost succeeds in toppling on top of his sibling. Sam catches him, holding onto his arms and sending a strangely helpless glance up towards Phil. He looks younger than twenty-three. Phil has to bite on his tongue to stop himself from offering to call in a S.H.I.E.L.D. evac with medical.

As far as they're aware, Phil's status in the government goes no higher than the FBI.

He almost feels like he's intruding on something private seeing Dean so vulnerable, and he doesn't know how he feels about that.

Dean breathes in and out raggedly for a moment, a low groan slipping through his lips. He grips Sam's jacket tightly, but slowly eases it and leans up. "I'm good. Really. Just got dizzy for a second. We can keep going."

The younger Winchester doesn't relinquish his hold. "Dean."

"Sam, the car is further back than this Titanic is, okay? At this point, we might as well keep going." Dean slowly balances, up and away from his taller sibling. His jaw tightens and his hand tries to go for his side before it spasms and he leaves it next to his stomach.

They don't have time for this. Phil hates that that's his first thought.

Sam says through gritted teeth, "You can barely stand. You should have just stayed at the motel."

Dean scoffs, "And leave you to deal with that thing by yourself?"

Sam's jaw grits, like he wants to protest, but he only grabs his brother's arm and swings it around his shoulders to help support him. Dean doesn't fight, only seems relieved by the contact. Phil digs around in his backpack for a second, then tosses the older Winchester a waterbottle. Dean catches it and lifts an inquiring eyebrow.

"For bloodloss," Phil explains, "you need water."

Dean's lips press into a thin line, but he twists off the cap and takes a long drink.

000o000

Twenty minutes later, they find the string of abandoned cabins Dean thought the Tiyanak was residing in. Although none of them could find any evidence to back this up, Hill said that Tiyanak's keep their prey alive for days at a time to play with them. Tiyanaks true forms are the spirits of babies whose mothers died before birth. This is their way of being a child, Phil guesses.

The Winchesters hadn't seemed surprised that a spirit would react this way. Phil wonders how strange their lives are that they aren't even phased by it.

It's another ten before the Tiyanak finds them.

It's appearance is of Phil's mother again, and he feels something disquiet settle in his chest at the sight of her. She's just standing in the middle of the road when they exit the third abandoned, decidedly victim-free cabin, head tilted and eyes blinking slowly.

The mouth opens, fangs present, and the creature makes a noise like it wants to speak, but can't. Frustrated, the Tiyanak begins to cry softly.

Phil's hands tighten around the .45.

Sam lifts up the sawed off shotgun and fires at the Tiyanak's body. Rock salt, Sam explained, when Phil asked why he thought a gun would do anything when Phil's .45 was useless. Salt repels spirits, the Tiyanak is a type of spirit.

At least, according to legend.

The Tiyanak staggers back from the impact, going utterly silent. Then it looks up at them, mouth gaping, eyes that milky white. It screeches, loud and fierce, mouth twisting as it slowly stretches up and out, filing into that old man again. Phil clamps his hands over his ears, as Dean fires a shot of rocksalt into the creature's chest.

It, like Sam's, only seems to make it angry. The impact holes don't fill themselves in, though, leaving blood to gape out.

The creature moves for them, wild; _fast._ It doesn't walk on two feet. It jumps with an awkward, hobbling gait that doesn't seem like it should actually be effective, let alone dangerous. The Tiyanak tears the gun from Sam's arm, ramming the butt of it into the young man's stomach. Sam topples at the force.

The Tiyanak flicks out wide claws, reaching for Dean again.

Phil fires his gun into the things face. The discharge makes the creature flinch, eyes scrunching up in pain. The bullets do nothing. Sound, Phil thinks frantically, it's not the guns, it's the _sound._ The Tiyanak turns to him, away from the older Winchester, and Phil does the only thing he can think of that's loud, and screams.

The Tiyanak stumbles back from him, hands clamped over it's ears and _shuddering._

One hand reaches out into the old coat and produces something. Ear plugs. Phil remembers them from the night Clint was taken. The creature stuffed them in then, too.

Dean swears under his breath.

Phil clamps his mouth shut, voice hoarse. "What was the plan?"

"Um." Dean intones, seeming at a loss for a moment. "It's a spirit. Technically. We were going to do a cleansing. Can't exactly dig up it's grave."

Sam starts to get up behind them. The Tiyanak, eyes narrowed and teeth bared, moves in for them again on that hopping, awkward gait. Phil braces himself, wishing they were more prepared. Wishing that they weren't running on five hours of sleep collectively, and that he actually knew what he was doing. The Winchesters lift their guns.

There's a jerking, wet sound.

The Tiyanak stops, looking down at the long stick poking through its ribs. It releases a choked gasp, and staggers. Phil's brow furrows. That looks a little like...an arrow? Phil's stomach leaps, and he lifts his gaze up, frantic, desperate and hopeful all at once.

He sees him. Clint is standing further down the dirt road, a bow that looks like it was made from a long stick and braided clothing for a string. Beside him—that's— _wait. What are the chances…?_

There's a redheaded woman next to him. Is that—?

_Black Widow?_

000o000

The Tiyanak ends up being easier to remove than Phil was expecting. The arrow provides ample distraction for Sam to pin it and Phil lay the ring of salt. Dean reads the ritual in slurred Latin, and the creature goes up in spark-filled smoke.

Phil stands there for a moment, exhausted, tired, and utterly _done._

Then he turns.

Clint is approaching, the redhead— _Black freakin' Widow—_ has his arm slung around her slim shoulders. Clint's left leg is bent at an awkward angle, kept straight with a handmade brace. Both of them aren't wearing jackets, braving the brisk weather with T-shirts. They're dirty, and cut up, but alive.

Black Widow. They didn't come out here to _negotiate_ with her. They were here on assignment to assassinate her. Clint knows that. It wasn't a find and retrieve mission, it was a find and _remove._ If Clint found her, she should be dead. Not _helping_ him.

They stop a few feet in front of him. Clint gives a tired attempt at a grin. "Found her."

Phil feels tense and tight. He still has a few bullets in his .45. His hand wraps around it, and Clint's hand grabs the barrel. His eyes are serious when Phil meets them. Black Widow eyes him, expression perfectly blank and dead. She makes no move for her defense.

"No." Clint says.

"Clint," Phil grits between his teeth.

" _No."_

"Ah, you must be Clint," Dean says behind him. His voice sounds strange. "And...and girlfriend?"

Black Widow's eyes slide up. Clint makes a small noise Phil thinks was supposed to a laugh.

Then Sam calls his brother's name loudly and Phil twists around sharply in time to see Dean topple forward.

000o000

Phil calls an ambulance. He doesn't care about Sam's half-hearted protesting, or the almost frantic look that Black Widow makes. (Nothing on her face looks real, like she's a porcelain doll that barely remembers to blink, let alone that she's human.)

He strings up some lies about a family trip and attack by a wild bear, and figures that if the FBI comes for the Winchesters, Phil will pull his very real, very superior S.H.I.E.L.D. ID out and wave it in their faces. Clint may have stopped the Tiyanak in its tracks, but Phil owes his life, and Clint's, to the Winchesters. Phil would have likely died out there in the woods if Sam hadn't dragged him back to their motel. And Clint would have suffered the same fate. Clint said he and Black Widow had no idea where they were.

So getting the Winchesters in a hospital is the least he can do after that.

The paramedics check the Widow and Clint over. Widow is dehydrated, malnourished, severely bruised like she'd been in an intense fight, and three of her left hand's fingers are broken. Clint is dehydrated and bruised as well. Phil suspects their initial meeting wasn't calm. Widow hasn't said a word since he met her.

Clint is pulled out to get his leg set, and Dean is whisked off to surgery. Sam plants himself in the waiting room and holds his head in his hands, breathing deeply and hoarsely all at once.

Phil gives him some space and pulls the Widow into an empty room. All he wants is some sleep, tylonial, and maybe some food. Answers, too, when he manages to have a moment to speak to Fury.

Black Widow can't be older than twenty, and Phil has a hard time processing that. They've been trying to find her since she was sixteen. _How long have you been at this, kid?_ He wonders. And why.

"Clint vouched for you." Phil says, like they just picked up the middle of a conversation after a small break. Widow stares at him through dark lashes. "Why?"

Her lips part, and she releases a slight breath, like the thought of talking exhausts her. "You sent him to kill me." Her voice has a faint Russian accent, but it's swallowed by an obvious attempt to make herself seem American. A few more years of speaking English frequently and Phil suspects it will be gone entirely. "He would not."

There's a faint wonder in her eyes, like she can't believe the words are falling from her lips.

Phil doesn't, either. _What happened to you two out there?_

His lips press together. "Why were you looking for the Colt?" The weapon that Phil doesn't want to ask the Winchesters about. He saw it, in the back of the Impala when he caught a glimpse of the trunk up close. He knows they _have_ it. And he knows now that they must know exactly what it is. Phil's entire world has rocked the last few days.

The Widow gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. "My employer wanted it. I don't care for it, if that's what you're asking."

"Who was your employer?"

Widow smiles slightly. Dead in her eyes, but alive on her lips. "A British organization."

He waits. She doesn't speak. "You want to elaborate?"

"No."

Phil bites on a surge of frustration. Widow stares at him, something weighted in her gaze. She lingers in the silence for another long minute before hesitantly saying, "Clint said...that you might be able to help me."

Phil forces his mouth to work. "With what?"

" _Krasnya Komnata._ " Widow says soft and cold all at once. Red Room. Phil stares at her for a long, weighted moment. Re-configures her inside his mind; an explanation and a curse all at once. _Ah._

000o000

Two days later, Phil stands inside the doorway to Dean's hospital room for a full five seconds before taking a step inside. Sam is seated at the bedside, laptop balanced on his legs, his brother silently dozing beside him. The two of them look more relaxed than Phil has ever seen them, but it isn't by much.

"How'd you end up here in the first place?" Phil asks.

Neither brother startles at his presence, as if they heard him enter from the hall and tracked him here. "We discovered the Tiyanak the hard way," Dean answers tiredly and waves a hand. There's a faint haziness to his eyes that suggests he's still on pain medication. "It doesn't really like us."

Phil huffs quietly and steps closer to the siblings. He reaches inside his suit coat and pulls out a card, offering it out to Sam.

"I need to leave," _taking two assassins who can't even legally drink yet with me,_ Phil leaves unsaid. "Call me if something comes up, or you need assistance."

Sam takes the card with two fingers, flips it, then stares up at Phil. "What's S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"You're not FBI?" Dean says, then grumbles quietly, "Figures."

"Think of it as the FBI's boss," he answers. He doesn't leave room for questions. "Thank you for helping me find Clint." The Winchesters stare at him like the offered gratitude was an insult in German.

"Um," Sam tries to recover himself, as if a thank you is something to recover _from_ , "yeah, sure. It was nothing."

"Still." Phil says.

"You have another one of those cards?" Sam asks. Phil nods and pulls out a second, handing it over. Sam flips it, and pulls a pen from the inside pocket of a leather laptop bag. He scribbles down three sets of numbers then hands it back to him. "You call us if you need help with anything not normal. Weird is kind of our thing."

Phil nods, baring that in mind, and tucks it into his suit coat. "I guess this is where I tell you with as much sincerity I can muster that I hope I don't see either of you again."

Sam laughs, and Dean huffs softly, making a rude gesture at him. "That's cold, Coulson."

Phil gives a small smile.

000o000

Red Room discussed, Black Widow—Natalia Romanova—placed under asylum with Clint as a babysitter, and Phil as the babysitter's babysitter, Phil finds himself inside of Fury's office. He means to discuss the case with him, to hand in a written report, something, but he just stares.

Fury looks up from the computer. "What, Coulson?"

And Coulson, feeling twelve once the words are out, asks, "Do you know that the supernatural is real?"

Fury's hands stop. He regards Phil carefully. Phil continues, because the director hasn't told him to stop. "We ran across the Winchesters. The serial killers? Except they aren't. They hunt ghosts and monsters. Supposedly there's others like them. We hunted a Tiyanak together."

"That so?" Fury murmurs. He seems to recognize the name. Phil wonders then, where Hill got her information.

"Sir?" Phil prods. "Did you know?"

Fury leans back in his chair a little. "I do. Of course I do. Coulson, do you think we'd be aware of super soldiers and the like, but not the supernatural?" He pauses then before adding, "Welcome to Level Seven."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Haha- as I was editing this story, I read this line "It, like Sam's, only seems to make it angry." As "It, like Sam, only seems to make [the Tiyanak] angry." Now I'm laughing to myself because for some reason the Tiyanak couldn't stand Sam's face. Apostrophe's are important, people!
> 
> Thanks for reading, moi druz'ya!
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/galaxythreads)


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